


violet hour

by brideofquiet



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Steve Rogers, Comeplay, Established Relationship, M/M, Oral Sex, Overstimulation, Playing Hard to Get, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pre-World War II Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Teasing, Top Bucky Barnes, Voyeurism, once again more tender than these tags imply
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:13:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22871539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brideofquiet/pseuds/brideofquiet
Summary: Sometimes Steve will look, for all intents and purposes, like he truly is asleep—curled up under his quilt, facing away from the lamplight. Once, when Bucky went to touch him, he really had fallen asleep. That night, Bucky just crawled in beside him and shut his eyes himself.This time, though, Steve is clearly still awake.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 47
Kudos: 474





	violet hour

Usually it’s a task and a half to get Steve to bed at any reasonable hour. Bucky tries his damndest to remind him _a regular sleep cycle’s good for your health, blockhead,_ but he’d eat his nicest pair of shoes if Steve ever took his griping to heart. He knows it’s no real use. Steve’s always been a night owl; says he likes the way everything feels still and charged, humming with the old day’s leftover energy and building up for the new.

It did sound awfully poetic, and Bucky is inclined to believe he meant it. Steve always has some beautiful reason for why he does what he does, when pressed to give one.

That doesn’t change the fact that staying up like he does makes him a terrible curmudgeon to contend with in the mornings. _Just a few more minutes,_ he’ll say, whenever Bucky tells him his book will still be there the next day, or that his pencils won’t run off in the night, or that it’s damn well time for him to get up and get dressed or he’ll be late for the church service he pretends he still goes to.

A few more minutes. Bullshit. A minute measured by a broken clock, maybe. Bucky can’t imagine Steve pulling this act with Sarah—or maybe she was just better at putting her foot down about it. Either way it’s nonsense, because Bucky isn’t Steve’s mother. Steve ought to have figured out for himself by now that there are hours for sleeping and hours for being awake and no matter what, it’s still twenty-four. It’s not like he’d be losing any time either way. The whole thing drives Bucky and his perfect circadian rhythm damn near up the wall. 

More often than not, he wakes up in the middle of the night to see Steve’s bed empty, sheets still made up and neat. He’ll ease himself out of bed, grumbling, and tread on heavy feet into the matchbox sitting room. There Steve will be, slumped sideways over the arm of the loveseat, a novel or a sketchbook or whatever else dangling from his knees. The lamplight always catches his face just so, that even with his mouth hanging open like a fish, he looks like something yanked right out of the stained glass in a cathedral. Lit through with sunshine on an early morning, beautiful like God had fixed the panes of Steve’s body on purpose, set his cheekbones and the crooked slope of his nose. Steve made the whole shabby room look holy.

Bucky could almost forgive him for it, just for the sight of that. Leave it to Steve to cause him such cognitive dissonance with the most mundane of bad habits. He almost hates to wake him up on nights when he looks that peaceful, except Bucky knows he’ll only end up with a crick in his neck and a fouler temper than usual for it. 

So Bucky will gently shake him awake, coo and coax till Steve gets himself upright—Bucky only tried to carry him the once; learned his lesson—and shuffles to bed. If Bucky doesn’t wake him too much, Steve might even get his hands around Bucky’s waist and haul Bucky down into bed with him. He never sleeps so well as the nights he has the white noise of Steve’s wheezy breath so close to his ears.

It didn’t take too much of that before they started falling into bed together on purpose.

And sometimes—full moons, something, Bucky hasn’t been able to guess the pattern yet—Steve does like to go to bed perfectly on time.

  
  


On a Wednesday evening, Bucky comes home from work to find Steve already tucked into the corner of the couch, nose shoved deep into the spine of whatever he’s reading today—some thick, dusty volume on ancient Greece. The glass sitting on the coffee table is empty, which means he’s been at it for a while.

“Hi,” Steve says, perfunctory, and turns a page.

Smile on his face, Bucky loosens his tie and props his elbows on the back of the couch. “Hey there, handsome,” he says, leaning into Steve’s space to catch the smell of him—spearmint and sweat. Steve hardly flinches when Bucky bumps their skulls together, passes his lips over the sloppy part in Steve’s hair. With a huff, Bucky peers down at the book. “‘How much more honored does the artist feel,’” he reads aloud all _legato,_ “‘how much more freely does he breathe, when he knows that he is exerting himself for a nation that will esteem its glory increased by his works, instead of toiling for the money and caprices of individuals?’ What is this, your manifesto?”

 _“Quit_ it.” Steve shoves Bucky’s head away, not without affection. “I’m almost done, leave me alone a minute.”

“Fine, fine. You hungry?”

Steve mutters what’s probably a yes, so Bucky wanders off into the kitchen to scrounge together something for their dinner. Steve’s still picking at his food by the time Bucky has a game of solitaire laid out on the coffee table. Always in his own time, that one. Sprawling comfortably on the floor, Bucky turns to his cards and lets him be.

Eventually Steve claps the book closed, firm in the way he only does when he’s finished it or it’s pissed him off somehow. Bucky glances up from his game to see him looking thoughtful—finished it, then.

“Learn anything worth knowing?” Bucky asks.

“Always,” Steve says, and finally gives him a smile. It’s warm and sure.

Bucky returns it just as easy. “Guess you’ll be starting a new one.”

“Mm, not now,” Steve hums. “I think I’ll go shower.”

Bucky’s brow raises, and not very subtly if the sudden glint in Steve’s eye is anything to go by. Steve stands and stretches his arms up high, the hem of his shirt slipping free of his waistband. If that wasn’t deliberate, the way Steve runs a hand up his stomach, dragging the cotton with it so his fingers brush over bare skin—well, it may not be brazen, exactly, but it’s on purpose. Bucky’s gut gives an excited lurch.

“You win that card game yet?” Steve asks as he trails into the bedroom.

“Not quite.” 

“Well, stick to it.” Steve reappears, a towel draped over his shoulder and a change of clothes in hand. “I’ll be awhile.”

Bucky’s hardly focused enough for solitaire now, but only once he turns back to his cards does Steve coast toward the door to the hall. The nonchalance is part of it. He stares down at the foundations, thinking about his next move. He likes this game—the quiet, unhurried strategy of it all. There’s no point rushing; it’s easier to win if you take your time.

Eventually, the door creaks. Bucky’s eyes flick up. Steve walks on socked feet back toward the bedroom, toweling his wet hair as he goes. His skinny legs are bare beneath a pair of boxer shorts, and the flannel shirt he’s left unbuttoned is too big to be his own. Steve pauses in the doorway, one hand on the jamb while he twists to look over his shoulder. His hair’s an unbrushed sprawl over his forehead, dark enough with water to make his eyes shine.

“I’m headed to bed,” Steve says.

Bucky glances at the clock. It’s hardly 8 p.m. He’d laugh, if it wouldn’t ruin it. Even when Steve’s being reasonable, he still finds a way to be ridiculous.

“You coming anytime soon?” Steve asks.

“In good time,” Bucky says.

“Suit yourself.”

“Don’t wait up for me.”

“Oh, I won’t.” The shirt slides off the point of Steve’s shoulder, baring half his back. He has two moles between his shoulder blades, and freckles above them—Bucky doesn’t have to look to know. “Want me to leave the light on, so you can see?”

“That’d be kind of you.”

Steve smiles, sweet and slow. “Enjoy your game, Buck.”

He leaves the door to the bedroom cracked. Bucky watches the gap for a long beat—nearly decides to hell with it. But he’s played a great game so far, and he ought to finish it as well as he’s begun it. With his eyes back on the cards, he’s still aware of the shuffling noises coming from the bedroom: the flick of the lamp switch, the open-close slide of a drawer, rustling of blankets and the eventual creak of box springs.

He finishes a foundation and stacks it neatly out of the way. The pendulum clock on the wall sways out steady, slow seconds, its clunking like another heartbeat in the room. The box springs give another whine—and then there’s another, low and breathy. Bucky swallows, shifting his seat on the floor, and keeps playing.

God knows when they started doing this. Bucky’s fairly certain it may have been a genuine accident the first time—probably he took Steve’s word at face value, much to his chagrin and eventual delight. Whatever way, he knows he’s supposed to stay here for another ten minutes at least.

Once he completes the game of solitaire, he packs away the little cards into their box and goes to replace them in the kitchen drawer. Bucky figures he may as well clean up from dinner while he’s there, too. With the whole place spick and span, it’s time for bed.

Bucky reaches his hands down to his feet, stretching out his lower back. As he stands, he gives an almighty yawn. There’s a sudden stillness in the bedroom, detectable only by some sixth sense Bucky developed for Steve sometime when they were about fifteen. Bucky heads for the door. It whines ever so quietly under his hand.

Sometimes Steve will look, for all intents and purposes, like he truly is asleep—curled up under his quilt, facing away from the lamplight. Once, when Bucky went to touch him, he really had fallen asleep. That night, Bucky just crawled in beside him and shut his eyes himself. 

This time, though, Steve is clearly still awake. His spread legs make a tent out of the quilt that, though it blocks any movement underneath from view, does nothing to conceal Steve’s face. His cheeks are flush as ripe apples. His eyes are closed. He could almost be asleep, albeit it in a strange position, if it weren’t for the noises dripping from his mouth like honey.

Bucky would bet a month’s rent that Steve has at least two fingers inside himself—maybe three. He sucks in a slow breath and just listens for a moment, while he stands in the threshold. Soft slick sounds muffled by cotton and quiet breathy moans poured out into the air. He hears his name once or twice, but it isn’t for him—Steve is saying it to himself, thinking about him while he touches himself. It sends a warm ripple through Bucky’s gut.

He plays along like he’s supposed to, though. In the room now, he stands in front of the dresser and undoes his buttons, one by one. He eases the shirt off and folds it before he replaces it in the drawer—clean enough to wear again. The undershirt next, and then he works at his belt. The metal click of the buckle and slide of leather. He feels Steve’s eyes on his back. The dingy mirror atop the dresser is angled so he can just see Steve’s face, his open mouth.

He works his slacks off and folds those too, and when he reaches for his underpants, Steve gasps behind him. “Oh,” Steve says, _“ah.”_ Maybe he’s dreaming.

Then Bucky’s naked. He pulls a sleepshirt free and holds it up, feeling the material between his fingers and humming, like he’s considering putting it on. Maybe he really is, but in the end he decides the same thing he always does on nights like these: it’s warm enough; he doesn’t need the layer.

When he turns toward the beds, Steve has fallen to his side, but he’s still panting. Bucky ignores him and crosses the room to his own mattress. Biding his time, he turns down his sheets, smoothing them with a hand—waiting. It’s not till he has one knee on the bed that Steve bleats out, “Bucky.”

“Mmm?” Bucky tuts softly in the back of his throat. “Thought you were going straight to bed.”

“Buck, I’m—sleep in mine tonight.”

He looks over his shoulder at Steve. “Trouble falling asleep?”

“Yeah,” Steve breathes.

“Need anything? We’re out of milk, but there’s honey—warm water?”

“No, no. Come to bed. Please?”

“Sure,” Bucky says, skeptical, but he goes to him anyway. He presses a palm to Steve’s forehead, feels the nape of his neck where he’s sweating and warm. “You’re flushed. Feeling alright?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re sure?”

Steve practically growls, a frustrated noise low in his throat. “Buck.”

“What?” Bucky says as he pushes Steve to lie flat on the mattress so he can get a proper look at him. Steve’s cock tents the thin sheet. “Hm. You weren’t trying to sleep at all, were you?”

“You’re a bad fuckin actor, Jesus.”

“Gonna pretend you didn’t insult me while you’re practically begging for my dick.”

“Oh fuck off. I mean—sorry, hell, come on, Buck, get on with it, you’re killing me.”

Bucky cups his face, squeezing Steve’s cheeks with his fingers and thumb just enough to make his lips pout. He brushes his thumbnail over Steve’s lower lip, and watches the way that simple touch turns Steve’s pupils to wide black circles. “I know something that might help,” Bucky says, “if you wanna try it.”

“Anything,” Steve says. Hint of a whine in his voice now.

“Make room.” 

And then Bucky’s climbing onto Steve’s small bed frame, settling in close till their legs are tangled, the sheet caught between them. He hovers over Steve for a long moment, just to take him in properly in the twitching lamplight—his pinched pink cheeks and sweep of his eyelashes when he blinks slowly up at Bucky. The bob of his Adam’s apple when he swallows, rough and audible.

Bucky kisses him while he inhales. Steve hums and grabs for him, his hands grappling with Bucky’s shoulders till he finds a decent grip, and then he kisses back. He doesn’t bother with pleasantries—mouth open, sucking on Bucky’s tongue the instant he can. His body shudders head to toe. His hips jerk. He’s worked up to hell and back, and all for Bucky.

They kiss for a while, Bucky lavishing in the taste of Steve’s lips, till Steve gets mean and starts biting at him. “Buck,” he says, “Bucky, if you don’t—I swear—”

“Someone’s impatient.”

“You took ages to finish that damn game.”

“Still playing, aren’t I?” Steve sighs, long and loud, and digs his fingers into Bucky’s hair. He tips his head back, exposing his throat either in irritation or resignation. “Hey, you started it.”

“Guess I did,” Steve says. Bucky nibbles teeth at his neck and Steve slowly, inch by inch, relaxes.

“There, honey, that’s it, right? In good time, you’ll see.”

He feels Steve shiver, but it can’t be the cold—it’s warm enough in here they’re both sweating already. Bucky gets a hand between them to yank the sheet out of the way, and then he’s skimming down Steve’s front, planting lush kisses along his path. By the time he makes it to Steve’s dick, his mouth is spit-wet and good for this, good for taking Steve inside and giving him some relief. Steve’s chest shakes as it rises, and he sighs out just as unsteady while Bucky whirls his tongue around him.

“This good?” he asks, lifting the shaft with one hand to kiss the underside.

“Yes,” Steve tells him.

“Is it what you wanted?”

“It’s—it’s good.”

“Tell me what you want then, Steve. Usually so good at it.”

He gets a flick on the scalp for that, but it barely stings. “Want you to—to kiss my hole too, then fuck it.”

“Mm. Fuck it with what?”

“Your _dick,_ Bucky, come on.”

“How’m I supposed to know? I’ve seen you washing that brush handle—”

Bucky’s laugh is a hiss when Steve thwacks him properly. “Quit it. I told you what I wanted, please just gimme it.”

“Fine,” Bucky sighs, and pushes Steve’s thighs up. “You’re a brat.”

“You like me that way.”

Rather than dignify that with an answer, Bucky leans in to breath over Steve’s hole, slick and pinked up already from where Steve had had his fingers inside it, golden hair around the edges. The sight of it makes his chest feel tight; with what, he doesn’t know. Tenderness or possessiveness, or both. This part of Steve’s body that’s so private, that belongs to Steve, but it’s his to take care of too. Bucky can’t help but slot the pad of his thumb over it and press, less about giving pleasure and more about giving himself a moment before he gets wrapped up in the doing and forgets to be thankful for it.

He imagines if he told Steve how grateful he is for this particular body part, he’d get another smack, so he keeps it to himself—but God, if he’s glad for anything, it’s that Steve lets him do this. So he kisses him where it counts, open-mouthed and gentle, and listens to Steve’s breath pop out of his lips.

“Yes,” Steve says, “yeah—” and he grabs Bucky’s hair to pull him in closer and keep him there. It’s not as if Bucky minds. He tongues Steve open till his body is as relaxed as it’s going to get and keeps going, just to hear Steve’s choked little noises that tell Bucky how much he loves this. 

When Bucky’s jaw is good and aching, he smacks a few kisses to Steve’s thighs and sits up. Steve blinks up at him owlishly. Bucky winks at him. “Ready for bed, champ?”

“That’s not funny.”

“Pretty sure it is.”

“Fuck me.”

“Not even a please! Good guys can’t catch a break these days.” Bucky’s still laughing to himself as he pushes Steve onto his side and slides in behind him. He likes lying this way, Steve gathered up in his arms and Bucky’s face in his hair. “This good?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, glueing himself against him and lifting his knee, “yeah, put it in me—please.”

“Oh, well, since you’re being kind.”

Bucky takes himself by the root and slots the head of his cock against Steve’s hole. For a moment he just lingers there, rubbing, because he knows the anticipation drives Steve bananas. But by now he’s feeling impatient too. It takes a try or two to get the angle right, and then he’s pushing in, Steve’s warm insides welcoming him every inch.

Steve groans like he’s been gutted. Bucky wraps his hand behind Steve’s knee to help him keep it aloft, and then he starts moving, short grinds into Steve’s hole. They really ought to keep it down, heaven knows the walls in this building aren’t made to withstand a serious punch, much less Steve’s throaty gasps every time Bucky gives him another inch—but he can’t bring himself to clap his hand over Steve’s mouth. If the neighbors don’t know by now, they’re not paying attention anyway. He sighs out too, his hips working, pushing him in and out of where Steve’s so tight and hot.

“Bucky, Bucky, you gotta—gimme it, alright, _fuck_ me—” 

“What d’you think I’m doin?”

“Being _sweet.”_

“Gonna fuckin let you top next time,” Bucky says, then shoves Steve onto his front and climbs on top of him. He reaches between Steve’s legs and pulls his dick back so it’s caught against the mattress, red and pretty. By Steve’s mewling, he’s pleased by this development, and even reaches back with a hand to hold himself open. “This what you want?”

And Bucky drives back into him unkindly. Steve yelps, but before the noise is out of his mouth, Bucky pulls himself free again. He dips in and out another handful of times, until Steve cranes his neck to glare at him—then he finally gives in, thrusting in deep and staying there for good this time. He sets one hand on Steve’s shoulder, careful not to press so hard he might restrict his breathing, and gets on with the program.

Soft little wet noises echo Steve’s groaning—his hole all wet from vaseline and Bucky’s spit. A sharp feeling sits in Bucky’s gut, more pronounced the harder he lets Steve have it. There’s sweat pooling in the crooked base of Steve’s spine. A litany of curses falls out of his mouth, mostly smothered by the mattress. Bucky fucks him deep as he can, and it’s exquisite, the way Steve clenches around him each time his dick drags over his spot. The headboard knocks against the wall, _clunk clunk clunk._

“Hell,” Bucky mumbles, falling to his elbows, “Steve, where do you want me to—”

“In me, in me.”

His thrusts stutter, and Steve shoves himself backward into the cradle of Bucky’s hips. He pushes in another time, again, before his vision turns spotty and he comes. Steve cries out like it’s him with the electricity rolling through every nerve ending. Bucky pulls back as his orgasm tapers off and for a moment just lingers there, his cock inside Steve enough to hold him open, but little else.

“Bucky,” Steve whines.

“I’ve got you,” Bucky says, and it takes effort but he makes it to his knees. Any thoughts he was on the way to forming fuzz out at the sight of Steve laid out before him—come leaking from his hole to slide over his balls and down his still-hard dick. “Fuck, Steve.”

“Touch me, God—you gotta.”

Bucky reaches for him and starts stroking, tight and unforgiving. Steve’s hips lift to give him better room. It’s not long till Steve is clawing at the sheets and cursing, back arching, the head of his cock flushed deep red. Bucky squeezes him hard. Steve makes a soft choked sound, and then he’s spilling into Bucky’s free hand in strands. The sight of it makes Bucky wish he were capable of sliding back into him right here and now.

Instead, he gathers Steve’s come on his fingers, and before Steve has a chance to collapse onto his stomach, pushes two into him to mix their release.

“Fuck!” Steve yelps, jerking away from him up the bed. Bucky, anticipating this, just moves with him and digs his fingers in deeper. “Bucky, _ungh,_ what the hell?”

“Say the word and I’ll stop.”

He pauses to watch Steve’s shoulders rise on a considering inhale. “Jesus,” Steve sighs, and grabs the pillow to shove under his chest, apparently settling in to receive whatever Bucky’s giving him. Bucky fingers him slow for a while, gathering his semen off Steve’s balls and pushing it back into him, where he’s wet and loose enough to be sloppy now. Steve gasps and twitches, but it’s faint—barely more than he does when he’s asleep. Bucky could put him to sleep like this, if he went on long enough. Maybe that’s his plan.

Eventually, though, when Bucky presses his middle finger too hard to Steve’s prostate, Steve hisses. “Okay, that’s enough, Buck, quit it.”

Bucky slides his fingers free and pops them in his mouth, just to deal with the immediate mess. He’ll need to get up, wash his hands, and find a damp cloth to help Steve’s sorry state. By then Steve ought to be pliant enough that Bucky can shoo him into his own, clean bed and they can fall asleep twisted up together.

It’s just a matter of leaving him here. Then he can do those things.

Steve sighs and smacks his lips, turning to rest his cheek on the pillow. From here Bucky catches a glimpse of one blue eye. “Hey,” Steve says, “that was good. Thanks.”

“Any time, sugar.”

Steve smirks. “Yeah, I know.”

Bucky pats his cheek indulgently before bouncing off the bed. He yawns and stretches his way into the kitchen, where he grabs that cloth and downs a glass of water to rehydrate. He fills it again and brings them both back to Steve, who’s just this side of falling asleep that he can sit up, have a drink, and clean himself up a bit. He waits for Bucky to get into his bed before clambering in on top of him. Two minutes later and he’s snoring softly with his chin piled on Bucky’s chest.

Bucky pets his hair for a while before he, too, drops off for the night. He expects he’ll wake up sometime around three and find Steve gone, off sketching on the couch or eating bread—but for now, Steve’s in his arms, and that’s always good enough.

His dreams are sugary sweet. 

  
  



End file.
